road. He ran over and arranged for Elia to meet him at the well when the Lemos family lay down for a nap.
“What are we doing?” Elia wanted to know.
“Something dangerous,” Petros said. Elia’s eyes lit up as if he’d said,
Something fun
.
People carrying their belongings continued to pass the house throughout the morning and made Petros feel a little sick. Perhaps anyone who
could
was leaving. Those who didn’t have good farms or sure businesses and were often hungry figured things would only get worse.
After the midday meal, Mama lay down for a nap. Sophie read a book. Papa and Old Mario sat on the porch smoking, and Zola joined them.
Petros met Elia at the well and told him what Zola had in mind. Elia said, “Why do we need Stavros?”
“We’ll make it look like a game. Someone watching will be interested in the boy throwing, or the boy catching. Who’ll see the third boy drop a piece of paper?”
Zola peeked around the corner of the house and waved them over. Elia ambled over to Zola, making it clear that he wasn’t going to be bossed around.
Zola waved a harder
come on
. “Are you ready?” he whispered impatiently when the boys stood in front of him.
Zola’s printed messages were wadded to make tight littleballs. A folded piece of paper might tempt the wrong people to pick it up—what proud soldier would pick up a piece of wadded paper out of mere curiosity?
On the way to town, Elia and Petros decided Zola’s plan was excellent. They agreed not to tell him they thought so.
Petros expected Stavros to pretend a lack of interest at first. Instead, Stavros acted like he’d been in charge all along and made them practice. They stood in the corners of his room, tossing a small cloth bag of sand around as they chanted, “Throw, catch, drop.”
Auntie looked in once, saw boys playing ball, and asked them no questions. In only a few minutes they got the rhythm of it down. Each one of them put notes in his pockets and left the house.
Italian soldiers were everywhere in clusters, more than ever before. Lounging on doorsteps. Having a coffee at an open café. Strolling. All around the soldiers, the village moved on in its usual way.
A boy only a little older than Zola stood at a windowsill, flirting with a girl. Old men played cards at a table in a garden. Women bustled from shop to shop, carrying boxes of paper money, their fingers hooked under the heavy twine. There were soldiers in the village, but everyone had learned to live with this.
Elia, Stavros, and Petros ran through the village, calling to each other, tossing the sand ball back and forth. Boys at play didn’t look disciplined. Hot, and panting whenever theystopped moving for a moment, how could they hold secrets? The soldiers hardly noticed them, and after a few throws, the boys relaxed.
They ran into yards and into doorways where they shouldn’t go. Once, a soldier caught the sand ball, then threw it onward to Stavros. With the soldier’s easy smile upon them, war seemed only a game everyone was playing.
Zola had fallen asleep on the veranda, and they found him there when they got back home. Papa and Old Mario had already gone back to work. “Be careful,” Zola said after they described their adventure. “The Germans are playing to win.”
Petros knew how to read his brother. He agreed with Stavros and Elia. It had gone well. But Elia said, “We’re careful and smart.”
“You have to be both,” Zola said, frowning. “You have to be everything but too sure of yourself.”
At bedtime, Zola sat in the darkness, waiting for the household to sleep. He planned to write his next message.
Petros asked, “What will you write?”
“You’ll see tomorrow,” Zola said.
Petros rolled onto his side, glad he, at least, could sleep through the night. Also, Petros knew Zola would soon talk about anything he did well.
“I might deliver these messages myself,” Zola said.
Petros pretended to be asleep for a few moments before
“What are we doing?” Elia wanted to know.
“Something dangerous,” Petros said. Elia’s eyes lit up as if he’d said,
Something fun
.
People carrying their belongings continued to pass the house throughout the morning and made Petros feel a little sick. Perhaps anyone who
could
was leaving. Those who didn’t have good farms or sure businesses and were often hungry figured things would only get worse.
After the midday meal, Mama lay down for a nap. Sophie read a book. Papa and Old Mario sat on the porch smoking, and Zola joined them.
Petros met Elia at the well and told him what Zola had in mind. Elia said, “Why do we need Stavros?”
“We’ll make it look like a game. Someone watching will be interested in the boy throwing, or the boy catching. Who’ll see the third boy drop a piece of paper?”
Zola peeked around the corner of the house and waved them over. Elia ambled over to Zola, making it clear that he wasn’t going to be bossed around.
Zola waved a harder
come on
. “Are you ready?” he whispered impatiently when the boys stood in front of him.
Zola’s printed messages were wadded to make tight littleballs. A folded piece of paper might tempt the wrong people to pick it up—what proud soldier would pick up a piece of wadded paper out of mere curiosity?
On the way to town, Elia and Petros decided Zola’s plan was excellent. They agreed not to tell him they thought so.
Petros expected Stavros to pretend a lack of interest at first. Instead, Stavros acted like he’d been in charge all along and made them practice. They stood in the corners of his room, tossing a small cloth bag of sand around as they chanted, “Throw, catch, drop.”
Auntie looked in once, saw boys playing ball, and asked them no questions. In only a few minutes they got the rhythm of it down. Each one of them put notes in his pockets and left the house.
Italian soldiers were everywhere in clusters, more than ever before. Lounging on doorsteps. Having a coffee at an open café. Strolling. All around the soldiers, the village moved on in its usual way.
A boy only a little older than Zola stood at a windowsill, flirting with a girl. Old men played cards at a table in a garden. Women bustled from shop to shop, carrying boxes of paper money, their fingers hooked under the heavy twine. There were soldiers in the village, but everyone had learned to live with this.
Elia, Stavros, and Petros ran through the village, calling to each other, tossing the sand ball back and forth. Boys at play didn’t look disciplined. Hot, and panting whenever theystopped moving for a moment, how could they hold secrets? The soldiers hardly noticed them, and after a few throws, the boys relaxed.
They ran into yards and into doorways where they shouldn’t go. Once, a soldier caught the sand ball, then threw it onward to Stavros. With the soldier’s easy smile upon them, war seemed only a game everyone was playing.
Zola had fallen asleep on the veranda, and they found him there when they got back home. Papa and Old Mario had already gone back to work. “Be careful,” Zola said after they described their adventure. “The Germans are playing to win.”
Petros knew how to read his brother. He agreed with Stavros and Elia. It had gone well. But Elia said, “We’re careful and smart.”
“You have to be both,” Zola said, frowning. “You have to be everything but too sure of yourself.”
At bedtime, Zola sat in the darkness, waiting for the household to sleep. He planned to write his next message.
Petros asked, “What will you write?”
“You’ll see tomorrow,” Zola said.
Petros rolled onto his side, glad he, at least, could sleep through the night. Also, Petros knew Zola would soon talk about anything he did well.
“I might deliver these messages myself,” Zola said.
Petros pretended to be asleep for a few moments before
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